lenten journal: borrowed
Tonight, as I went on a relatively futile search for words of my own to share, I found some words by others I am going to borrow tonight. These are not easy poems because they name grief quite well, and in that have offered me comfort. All three of them were new to me. The first is by Taylor Mali called “My Deepest Condiments.”
Not condolences, or sentiments,
she sent me her deepest condiments
instead, as if the dead have need
of relish, mustard, and ketchup
on the other side.
O, the word made me laugh
so hard out loud it hurt!
So wonderfully absurd,
and such a sweet relief
at a time when it seemed
only grief was allowed in
after my father’s death,
sweet and simple laughter,
which is nothing more than
breath from so far deep inside
it often brings up with it tears.
And so I laughed and laughed
until my sides were sore.
And later still, I even cried
a little more.
Laughter which “which is nothing more than breath from so far deep inside it often brings up with it tears.” Wow. Breathe deep the breath of God. . . .
The second is “The Sadness of Clothes” by Emily Fragos, which makes me think of how Ginger made a point of sharing some of my mother’s clothes with her friends.
as when he showed up immaculately dressed in slacks and plaid
jacket
and had that beautiful smile on and you’d talk.
You’d go to get something and come back and he’d be gone.
You explain death to the clothes like that dream.
You tell them how much you miss the spouse
and how much you miss the pet with its little winter sweater.
You tell the worn raincoat that if you talk about it,
you will finally let grief out. The ancients etched the words
for battle and victory onto their shields and then they went out
and fought to the last breath. Words have that kind of power
you remind the clothes that remain in the drawer, arms
stubbornly
folded across the chest, or slung across the backs of chairs,
or hanging inside the dark closet. Do with us what you will,
they faintly sigh, as you close the door on them.
He is gone and no one can tell us where.
The last one is “The Needs of the Many” by Brendan Constantine.
On the days when we wept—and they were many—we did itover the sound of a televisionor radio, or the many enginesof the sky. It was rarely so quietwe could hear just our sadness,the smallness of itthat is merely the sound of windand water between the many pagesof the lungs. Many afternoonswe left the house still cryingand drove to a café or the movies,or back to the hospital where we satdumb under the many eyesof Paul Klee. There were manyumbrellas, days when it refusedto rain, cups of tea ignored. Wewashed them all in the sink,dry eyed. It’s been a while,we’re cried out. We collect pausesand have taken to reading actualbooks again. We go through themlike yellow lights, like tunnelsor reunions, we forget which;the older you are the more similes,the more pangs per hour. Indeed,this is how we break one hour intomany, how healing wounds timein return. And though we knowthere will always be crying to do,just as there’s always that song,always a leaf somewhere in the car,this may be the only sweetness left,to have a few griefs we cherishagainst the others, which are many.
“There will always be crying to do, just as there’s always a song. . . .” I think I’ll sleep on that one.
Peace,
MIlton
